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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023598">check out anytime you like (but you can never leave)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wambsgangs/pseuds/wambsgangs'>wambsgangs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the extended 1970s succession universe [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Succession (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1x01: "Celebration" (but it's 1973), Alternate Universe - 1970s, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:02:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,215</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30023598</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wambsgangs/pseuds/wambsgangs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He was twenty-eight, and Ewan had been nagging him about doing something with his life for long enough. So, fine. Greg took the hint.</p><p>He was pretty sure that Ewan didn’t mean for him to set out for Manhattan and try his luck at Waystar, but at this point, Greg didn’t care. </p><p>(1x01, "Celebration," but it's July 1973 and Greg is a draft dodger.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg Hirsch &amp; Tom Wambsgans, Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the extended 1970s succession universe [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147634</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>check out anytime you like (but you can never leave)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Greg hefted his knapsack over his shoulders and cast one final glance around his bedroom. In the weak morning light, the room looked sparse. The closet doors hung ajar and revealed empty shelves, barren wire hangers. He had just stripped the bed clean and left the sheets in a wicker hamper by the door. Except for a faded Cree quilt draped over the rocking chair by the window, the room—<em> his </em>room, the closest thing that he’d ever had to a childhood home—was cold, impersonal. </p><p>Maybe it should have been harder to leave it behind. But Greg was good at making French exits. </p><p>He just couldn’t do that to his grandfather. </p><p>The stairs creaked underfoot as Greg headed down to the kitchen, where he knew Ewan would be waiting for him with a coffee mug in one hand and a copy of the morning paper in the other. If it were any other morning, Ewan might have grunted in response to Greg’s bright <em> Morning, Grandpa! </em>and poked at his oatmeal while pulling a sour face at the various global atrocities laid out in serif typeface on grimy newsprint. They might have eaten in companionable silence. Greg might have endured a lecture about his unconscionable diet of fried eggs and coffee with too much cream and sugar.</p><p>Not this morning. </p><p>When Greg walked in, Ewan sat up and folded his newspaper shut. His eyes were almost black in the dim light. “You’re going, then.” </p><p>“Uh.” Greg hooked a thumb under one of the shoulder straps on his knapsack. “Marcia said the lunch is at two, so.” </p><p>Ewan blinked. “Hm.” </p><p>A long silence stretched between them. Greg shifted his weight onto his heels, fidgeting under his grandfather’s penetrating stare. “Guess I’ll get going.” Ewan’s expression was unchanging. “Beat traffic.” </p><p>It wasn’t as if Greg was <em> expecting </em> his grandfather to send him off with a hug, or even parting words of wisdom. They hadn’t really spoken in days, as it was. </p><p>Greg bit his lip. “Well, uh. S-so long, Grandpa.” </p><p>“Gregory.” </p><p>He paused in the doorway at his grandfather’s voice, a quiet rasp. When he turned around, Ewan folded his hands on top of his forgotten newspaper. </p><p>“I don’t see why you won’t just enlist.” </p><p><em> Here we go. </em>Greg sighed, leaning up against the doorframe. “I already told you. I have, like. Principles?” </p><p>Ewan snorted, a derisive sound. <em> “Principles.”  </em></p><p>“And, uh, shipping off to another country to kill people for, like, democracy? Just kinda feels like I’d be compromising those principles.” </p><p>“Bullshit.” Ewan sniffed, took a sip of coffee. “I think you’re afraid of hard work. You haven’t worked for a damn thing in your life.”</p><p>Greg tried to keep his face impassive. People tended to think he was vacant behind the eyes, a little touched in the head, maybe. But that wasn’t all bad. You didn’t get kicked around so much that way. Sometimes it was easier to just absorb the blow.</p><p>“So you won’t do the honorable thing and serve your country, and you won’t go to university. You’ll whore yourself out to the free market, sure. But <em> real </em> work? Good, honest work? No. That’s a bridge too far for you.” </p><p>“Maybe I don’t wanna live on a ranch for the rest of my life,” Greg said, with more conviction than he actually felt. “You know? Maybe, like.” He wet his lips. “Maybe this is good for me.” </p><p>Ewan fixed him with a withering stare. “Or maybe you’re just a coward.” </p><p>Greg winced. He pushed off the doorframe, deciding that he was done with this conversation. “Okay, well,” he said, tossing off a careless wave as he left the kitchen. “I’m going.”</p><p>He heard Ewan huff, the sound of chair legs scraping over the tile, the click of a cane paired with shuffling footsteps in the hall. Evidently, he wanted to have the final word.</p><p>Whatever. Greg didn’t have to listen to it. </p><p>A soft, warm breeze swept through his hair when he stepped out the front door. The sun was just beginning to poke over the horizon, spilling out like a pierced yolk. He watched the light trickle over the distant treeline for a moment. Committed the visual to memory, a mental picture to carry with him. He could tuck it into his back pocket with his last $10 bill and a cheap lighter. </p><p>If he was completely honest with himself, he didn’t really <em> want </em> to leave. Life was comfortable here, familiar. How many summers had he spent here while his mother floated down the coast with her beatnik friends, lazing in the grove? Lighting up joints in the dilapidated barn at the edge of the property line, watching smoke curl into wisps above his head and through the uneven slats in the roof? He had his own bedroom in the east wing of the house and free reign in the kitchen. Basically, he could come and go as he pleased, with almost no interference from his grandfather, except for the occasional lecture about the dangers of indolence. It was kind of perfect. </p><p>That had been fine when he was a kid. But he was twenty-eight, and Ewan had been nagging him about doing <em> something </em> with his life for long enough. He’d taken to lobbing Bertrand Russell quotes at Greg, as if that would spur him on. “Most people would sooner die than think; in fact, they do so.” “Nothing is so exhausting as indecision, and nothing so futile.” So, fine. Greg took the hint. </p><p>He was pretty sure that Ewan didn’t mean for him to set out for Manhattan and try his luck at Waystar, but at this point, Greg didn’t care. </p><p>At the end of the gravel path, Greg’s teal ‘68 T2 waited for him. He’d already tossed a faded yellow duffel in the back last night and hung up a soft blue button-down and wrinkled khakis on a warped hanger by the back doors—it wasn’t much of an outfit, but he couldn’t exactly turn up at his great-uncle’s Park Avenue penthouse in a pair of denim cutoffs and a Velvet Underground t-shirt. </p><p>Greg fished around in his pocket for the keys. He felt a bit like a kid running away from home, aimless and unprepared for what lay around the bend.</p><p>Well, he had <em> some </em>idea. </p><p>He wrenched the driver’s side door open and clambered up into the cabin. Ewan shuffled down the driveway, drawing his marled cardigan tight around his shoulders. Greg turned the key in the ignition and let the engine stutter to life, but he idled until Ewan tapped on the window with a knuckle.</p><p>“Give my best to that brother of mine, won’t you?” Ewan said, a scowl pulling at the corners of his mouth, when Greg reluctantly rolled the window down.</p><p>Greg forced a tight smile. </p><p>“Sure,” he said, throwing the gear shift into reverse. “I’ll, uh. I’ll tell him you said happy birthday.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>While Greg drove, he struggled to remember the last time that he’d visited the other Roys. </p><p>The <em> other </em> Roys. It was how he thought of them, those distant relations who just so happened to own a global media corporation. They felt <em> other </em> to him, like foreign entities. His cousins had gone to English boarding schools and summered in Nice, traveled with <em> au pairs. </em>Greg, on the other hand, spent his childhood in the backseat of a camper while his mother chainsmoked Parliaments in the driver’s seat and flicked cigarette ash out the window.</p><p>He supposed that it made him worldly, in a way. Worldly, in the most literal sense of the word, in that he’d seen a lot of it. That didn’t necessarily put him in league with these polished socialites, but. At the very least, it made him adaptable. Perspicacious, as it were. </p><p>Greg took a drag on his own cigarette, careful to blow the smoke out the cracked window. </p><p>The last time he’d seen the Roys. God, it had to be, like, at least fifteen years ago. He sort of remembered tucking himself into a lawn chair with a comic book at the Hamptons house while Logan shouted himself hoarse at his grandfather. </p><p>It was all kind of hazy, but he remembered how pristine the place was, to the point that he was almost afraid to touch anything, or leave a greasy fingerprint behind. When he’d tracked mud into the gleaming kitchen, the house staff mopped it up before he wandered back through to the backyard, but still. He felt like an unsightly stain on their lily-white lineage by virtue of his existence. Trailer park trash. </p><p>Maybe that was the reason that they hadn’t invited him back the next summer. </p><p>His palms started to sweat on the steering wheel when he crossed the border. By the time he hit Secaucus, he pulled off the highway into a service area and parked, grabbed his change of clothes out of the backseat and dressed quickly in the public restroom. </p><p>He frowned at his reflection in the spit-flecked mirror over the sink.</p><p>Greg splashed a bit of murky tap water on his face, dragged his fingers through his windblown hair. “Okay.” His shirt was stretched tight across his shoulders, the placket rippled where he’d buttoned it up. He tried to smooth the wrinkles out of the fabric with shaking hands. “It’s good. You’re good.” </p><p>
  <em> You’re a coward.  </em>
</p><p>Well, maybe. But it didn’t stop him from getting back behind the wheel and driving east until he pulled up to the curb outside 733 Park Avenue. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“You’re <em> sure </em> he’ll like it?” Tom asked Shiv in a low whisper, at the edge of the parlor. Marcia had already started shepherding the group into the foyer and arranging them like a dull bouquet of wilted flowers in front of the elevator, but he drew Shiv aside. The question was crucial. </p><p>“What, the watch?” Shiv looked down at the slim, black leather box in Tom’s grip. “Tom, I already told you. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t like <em> things.” </em>She tugged at his lapel and dragged him toward the foyer. “You want my dad to like you? Buy him office space in the EEOB.” </p><p>Tom frowned, but Marcia silenced the room with a raised hand before he could ask for more reassurance. “Everyone, please. Quiet,” she said. “It’s a surprise, yes?” </p><p>“We’re not actually surprising him,” Shiv said. “Are we?” </p><p>Roman sniggered from somewhere behind him. “Oh, <em> lovely. </em>You know, the last time I surprised him, I think he took a swing at me.” </p><p>“Please,” Marcia snapped in a tone of voice that brooked no disagreement, and the foyer fell into a stony silence. The elevator groaned with the weight of its occupant stories below their feet. The sound of pulleys and grinding gears filled the silence as they waited. </p><p>Tom leaned into Shiv, brushing his lips against the shell of her ear. “Festive, no?” he murmured. She elbowed him in the ribs, stifled a laugh behind her hand. </p><p>And then the elevator ground to a halt. The door slid open, and a pale hand reached forward to pull the grate aside. Logan stepped out with a dour look on his face, and then— </p><p><em> Jesus Christ. </em> Tom sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of a pale, sweaty stranger lurking over Logan’s shoulder. Where the <em> fuck </em> was Colin? It struck him as sort of odd that nobody seemed remotely concerned that some underfed hippie in ill-fitting slacks had wandered off the streets and into the apartment, least of all Logan. <em> Fuck. </em>The old codger was eighty, sure, but, ah. This was a pretty significant lapse in judgment, wasn’t it?</p><p>“Hi, hi,” Logan said, irritable as he pushed through the foyer into the parlor, acknowledging the thin chorus of <em> happy birthday </em> with a feeble hand wave. “Very nice, thank you. Ah.” He cleared his throat, and glanced at the kid standing just off to the side with his giant hands jammed in his pockets. “Everyone, this is Craig, by the way. Cousin Craig. You remember.” </p><p>Tom looked at Shiv, but she was frowning at her father. “‘Craig?’” she repeated, incredulous. “It’s—it’s Greg, no?” </p><p>The kid’s face split into a nervous grin. “Yeah, um. It’s Greg, but people sometimes, like, mistakenly call me Craig? So, I’ll answer to both.” </p><p>“Fuckin’ Christ,” Roman snorted, but he stuck a hand out to shake with a smirk. “Greg. Old buddy, old pal. Been a while, huh?” </p><p><em> Greg? </em>Tom mouthed at Shiv. She raised an eyebrow. </p><p>“It’s so lovely of you to come,” Marcia said, smiling up at Greg. Greg, the cousin that Tom had never once heard mentioned, even in passing, in the two years he’d been dating Shiv. Greg, who had to be close to seven feet tall, standing there in his too-short khakis with his bony ankles jutting out, grinning like an ape at his estranged family. Greg, the gatecrasher. “The drive was smooth, I hope?” </p><p>“Oh, yeah,” Greg said, nodding effusively. “Um, like. Thanks for having me on such short notice.” </p><p>Tom couldn’t stop staring at him. It was like one of those <em> Highlights </em> puzzles: “What’s Wrong With This Picture?” Apart from the fact that Greg looked like a jumble of mismatched limbs, it was just glaringly obvious that he didn’t <em> fit. </em>He stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, only moving to snag a champagne flute. It was clear that he didn’t even know how to hold it properly, just cupped it in the palm of his sweaty hand and sipped it gracelessly. Tom winced. </p><p>He was torn between two competing desires: to watch this kid flail helplessly and drown, or to throw him a life preserver. Which was stupid. Because if his instincts were right—and they usually were—this wasn’t just a pop-in. </p><p>The timing on this visit was suspicious, if he thought about it. An apparently neglected branch on the Roy family tree had borne fruit—a grotesque piece of Franken-fruit—and <em> now </em> he decided to drop by for a long-overdue visit. <em> Today. </em>Logan’s eightieth birthday. Kendall’s fucking coronation day.</p><p>Yeah. It was all pretty fucking suspicious.</p><p>“Shiv,” Tom said, beckoning to her with a crooked finger. “You never told me you had a cousin.” </p><p>Shiv lifted a shoulder. “He’s my cousin’s kid. Marianne. Haven’t seen her since she went all woo-woo, started living out of a van with a bunch of her freaky beatnik friends. She’s fucking nuts, if you ask me.” She drank from her champagne flute, casual as anything.</p><p>Well, that was definitely a <em> story, </em>but it could wait. Tom leaned eagerly into her. “Sure, but. Come on, Shiv. Gimme some intel. What’s his deal?”</p><p>“How the fuck should I know?” she scoffed.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Tom said. “You’re family, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Only technically.” Another sip. “I barely know him.” </p><p>Tom frowned. “I mean, should I be worried? You don’t think he wants a job?” He eyed Shiv anxiously. <em> “Does </em>he? Oh, God. You think he’s coming in?”</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, Tom. He <em> literally </em>just got here,” Shiv said, then brushed him off to chat with Connor and his call girl, leaving Tom to stand alone, clutching a Patek Philippe box and feeling like a complete asshole. </p><p>Tom wrestled with indecision for a moment. He was mulling over the speech that he’d mentally prepared to deliver along with his gift when Logan called his kids away for a quick word before lunch, and the room emptied out before he could seize his opportunity. He cut a glance at Greg, who was examining a tray of crystal decanters with clumsy fingers, and made his decision. </p><p>“So,” he said, drawing up beside Greg, who startled at his approach and jostled some of the decanters when he jerked back. “You’re the new kid, huh.” </p><p>Greg turned to him with a slow, bovine blink. “The—the new kid?”</p><p>“Greg, was it?” Tom extended a hand, and when Greg took it tentatively in his own, his palm was clammy. <em> Eurgh. </em>He resisted the urge to wipe his hand off on his trousers. “Tom Wambsgans, Parks and Cruises. You’re coming in, aren’t you?” </p><p>“Coming… in?” God, did this kid just speak in stammers? <span>He fucking reeked of patchouli and cigarette smoke. Maybe it was, you know. Brain damage from excessive hotboxing. </span></p><p>Tom raised an eyebrow. “To Waystar, Greg. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Thought you’d pull the old nepotism card, worm your way into the family business.” </p><p>“Oh.” Greg’s face cleared. “I mean, like. I’m just kinda, like, feeling things out? I don’t even know if there’s a job for me.” </p><p>“Well, if you need anything,” Tom shrugged. “Advice, you know, any help? Just, you know. Don’t fucking bother, okay?” He studied Greg’s slack-jawed stare for a beat before barking out a sharp laugh. “Relax. I’m joking, yeah?”</p><p>Greg laughed, too, after a startled pause. “O-okay. Thanks, man.” </p><p>“Don’t mention it.” He clapped Greg on the shoulder, just as Logan burst through the doors with a harried-looking Kendall close at his heels. </p><p>Well. This promised to be an… eventful afternoon. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The atmosphere in the dining room was tense, quiet but for the sound of Greg’s knife screeching over his china plate. </p><p>It seemed like Greg had taken Tom at his word. He kept glancing up from his dish to find Greg watching him closely from across the table, eyebrows knitted together with palpable anxiety. So Tom made a show of choosing the appropriate salad fork, of carefully lifting his wine glass by the base of the stem. Greg mirrored him after a beat. </p><p>Tom bit back a smile. </p><p>“This is lovely, Marcia,” Shiv said, drawing murmurs of agreement from around the table. “The whole day. Really thoughtful.” </p><p>“Thank you, Siobhan. Very kind of you.” </p><p>“You’re such a suck-up,” Roman told Shiv in a stage whisper, leaning across Tom. </p><p>Shiv glared. “Fuck off.” </p><p>“‘Oh, gee, <em> thanks, </em> Marcia. You’re <em> so swell, </em>Double Vote Power Mum.’” Roman flashed Shiv a cunning grin. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like.” </p><p>“Asshole.” </p><p>“Cunt.” </p><p>Tom set a hand on Shiv’s knee under the table, squeezing lightly. He never knew how to handle these situations, when Shiv got into shit-flinging fights with her brothers. Whenever he bothered to step in, it was always miscalculated, so he tried to stay out of it and swallow his discomfort. He could feel Greg staring. He wondered if the family dynamics here struck Greg as odd, too, or if he was just missing something, as usual. Only child, attentive parents, middle-class WASP-y upbringing. He was always out of his depths when it came to understanding this family. </p><p>Frank cleared his throat and tapped on his wine glass with the blunt edge of his knife. “I’d like to say a few words, if I may?” </p><p>Roman groaned. Kendall shot him a warning look. </p><p>“Logan Roy. Born in Dundee, Scotland eighty years ago today. Raised in Quebec by an uncle with a print shop and an aunt with a herd of cattle. Founder of one of the largest media conglomerates in the world. A soothsayer to presidents and prime ministers. He’s tough, he’s wily, but he’s always true to his word.” Frank allowed himself a smile. “I arrived to give him legal advice twenty years ago, and I never got out the door. And since that day, I’m proud to call him a friend. So, let’s raise a toast, shall we?” He lifted his glass, and everyone followed. “To Logan Roy.” </p><p>Here was his opportunity. Tom started to push out of his chair to make his grand gesture, but Logan cut in. </p><p>“I think,” he said, setting his utensils atop his plate. “I think it’s time to play the game.” </p><p>“Do we have to play the game?” Shiv asked. </p><p>“Well, it’s my birthday, so, yes. We’re playing the game,” Logan said. </p><p>Greg looked at Tom, then around the table. “What’s the game?” he asked, as an anxious smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. </p><p>The game, as it turned out, was an annual softball game on a private pitch in Staten Island. They had to shuttle out to Teterboro, so the group splintered off into a fleet of idling Cadillacs out on the street. Tom tried to follow Shiv, but she slid into a car with Roman and his girlfriend Grace with an insouciant shrug before closing the door on him. </p><p>“Oh, <em> shit.”  </em></p><p>Tom looked over his shoulder. Cousin Greg was hovering by a Volkswagen bus littered with parking tickets. </p><p>“Jesus Christ,” Tom said, sauntering over to where Greg stood on the curb. “Think you missed a turn on your way to Haight-Ashbury, buddy.” </p><p>It was, to put it bluntly, an eye-sore. The hood bore a peace sign, done up in streaky white spray paint. The tires were worn and balding. There were signs of rust damage along the wheelhouse, deep scratches and nasty dents in the front bumper. But Tom couldn’t quite see past the airbrushed painting of a wizard along the rear door. </p><p>“Huh?” </p><p>“What’s with the—?” Tom gestured at the van, pulling a face. “—the fucking Hippie Mobile?”</p><p>Greg snatched the tickets up from the windshield and flipped through them absently. “Oh, um. It was my friend’s, actually. I took it off his hands before he, uh. Shipped out for active duty.” </p><p>“Hm.” Tom drew closer for inspection. A bit of teal paint scraped off under his fingernail when he ran a hand along the hood. “What a sound investment.” </p><p>“Aw, man. This is, like, twenty bucks in fines,” Greg whined from behind him.</p><p>“Only thing missing from this shitbox is a fucking ‘Make Love, Not War’ bumper sticker.” Tom poked his head around the back of the van. “Ah. Never mind.” </p><p>“Great,” Greg said, a frantic edge creeping into his voice that pulled Tom up short. “This is just, like, <em> great </em>timing. Like, I’m pretty sure that I’m gonna overdraw my bank account.” He rifled his hands through his hair so that it flopped back across his forehead, lifeless. “And—and my grandpa cut me off because I wouldn’t join up, so, like, I’m fucked, basically.” </p><p>Tom frowned. He couldn’t afford to feel fucking sympathy for this kid, pathetic as he clearly was. “You don’t strike me as a trust fund kid.” </p><p>“Yeah, well. Guess I’m not anymore.” Greg gave a humorless laugh, kicked at the curb with the toe of his Kalsos. “Sue me for being a pacifist, right?” </p><p><em> Jesus. </em>It was too much to unpack—the ideological divide between warring Roy factions, the fact that this freeloader apparently had principles but still wanted a job at fucking Waystar Royco, of all places. HQ for Dick Nixon propaganda. Tom sighed.</p><p>“Come on,” Tom said, jerking his head toward the Cadillac waiting for them with Marcia and Logan already tucked inside. “Unless you want to drive this piece of shit to Teterboro.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He was fucked. </p><p>Greg was lying on his side in a pew in the New York-Presbyterian hospital chapel, shoulder pressed uncomfortably into the wood. His spine ached. He longed for the rickety trundle in the back of his VW. At least it had a mattress. </p><p>How the fuck did he get here? </p><p>This was supposed to be his moment. Right? One small step for man, one giant leap for Gregkind? But now he had effectively severed his link to his grandfather and whatever financial support that entailed, and his great-uncle was in a coma. And his cousins kept looking at him like he had three heads when he asked if there was a job for him at the end of all this—which, like, fair enough, their dad was on life support, but <em> fuck, </em> so was Greg, in a way. </p><p>The humidity in the chapel was stifling, even in the middle of the night. His dress shirt clung to his back like a second skin. Greg rolled onto his back to stare, unblinking, into the dark vaulted ceiling overhead. </p><p>Should he pray? He wasn’t religious, but sleep remained frustratingly elusive. He wondered if it was completely ghoulish to pray for his own fucking deliverance. <em> Dear God, if you’re out there listening? My cousin Shiv stole my last $10 and I kinda feel like I shouldn’t be condemned to a life of poverty?  </em></p><p>He was a good person—kind of. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but who was? Morality was a sliding scale, and the way Greg saw it, he fell solidly in the middle. He might have lied to avoid the draft, but at least he wasn’t sniping Viet Cong soldiers and burning villages to the ground. And Waystar was basically a right-wing propaganda machine, but if he could just get a foot in the door, maybe he could work it from the inside, you know? Prod it in the right direction. </p><p>But that was all assuming that he could <em> actually </em> get a job. </p><p>Greg sighed and folded his arms over his chest. He’d talk to Tom in the morning, work that angle for all it was worth. For now, he’d have to wait to fall into a fitful sleep and hope that the world hadn’t gone to pieces by the time he woke. </p><p>He just hoped he hadn’t made a huge mistake by coming here. </p><p>If nothing else, he could just leave.</p><p>At least, he hoped that he could.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i would be remiss not to give so much credit to niharika for indulging me in the DMs with my insane ramblings about '70s tomgreg. guys, it's literally lore at this point. niharika, you're the real airbrushed wizard here.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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